University of Virginia Library

Scene II.

—A Room in Prince Diodati's House.
Fiorilina and Costanza.
Cos.
I came with thee to please thee, sweetest Friend—
Thou know'st not how I sicken at the sight
Of those disgustful dresses—how my Heart
Detests their frippery and their finery all!

Fio.
Heyday! and what may be the cause that thus
You spite the innocent dresses—smiling there
In all their spangled bravery?—but I guess—

Cos.
(hastily.)
Thou dost not—no!—it is but that I think
This Festa at the Ducal Palace held
Will be most tedious.

Fio.
Was the last so?—heigh?

Cos.
Why, no!—but then—perhaps—this will be!—Ah!—
The last!—my Uncle wished me not to go—
I tired him out with my entreaties till
He gave consent—it was a joyful time!—
But this!—I would not go to this—methinks—
But then my Uncle seems to wish it much,
And urges me to go.

Fio.
And therefore Thou,
Out of sheer obstinacy's rank caprice,
Wouldst stay at home; thus seems the case to lie.
Thy uncle wishes thee to stay away,
And therefore thou wouldst give the world to go—
Thy Uncle wishes thee to grace the ball,
And therefore thou wouldst keep thyself at home,
And sit and sulk away with all thy might!—
Why!—thou'rt a very rebel!—Well!—I vow—
I think thy ill-used feet—if they may have
The least of Spirit in them, and should chance
To catch the sprightly Viol's cheery sound,
Will e'en turn rebels too, and bear thee swift
In tripping triumph of fantastic freedom
Right to the very thickest of the Ball.

Cos.
Oh! do not think that I can pleasure find
In thwarting my dear Uncle!—Oh! no! no!
But thou art in some most tiresome wrangling mood,
And most unamiable indeed to-day.

Fio.
Not I!—to prove I am not—now I think
I know a little pretty piece of news
Would change you in one second.

Cos.
Nay, not so!—

Fio.
I do! Come, choose your dress—and all in smiles
I venture to pronounce you yet will go
To this fair Festa.

Cos.
Nay! you are unkind—
You are most unkind. You say so but to grieve me.
I know far better; must I not know best?

Fio.
Still better then than best believe I know!
Wilt please thee choose?—Wilt have this padusoy?—
Or this fair Tyrian-tinctured stiff brocade—
This murrey-coloured three-piled velvet—or
This Fire of Egypt taffeta—or that
With silvery borderings—or this cendale silk—
Of tender apricot—or this belike—
Rich cloth of gold with flowers of Cramoisie—

Cos.
(pettishly.)
Torment me not unseasonably thus—
Leave teasing—for you plague me past endurance—
The annoyance tries my temper, even o'ermuch!—
You vex me, pain—grieve—spite me barbarously,
Unamiable, unfeeling—most ungentle!—
Give over worrying me—thank Heaven, 'twill cease!
Their end must have—these odious Preparations—
And this more odious Prospect!—

Fio.
Aye! good sooth!
Banquets and Balls must come unto an end
And so may—Banishments!— Cos. starts.)
Why, how now! heigh?

Cos.
Oh! dearest Fiorilina—kindest—best—
Sweetest and gentlest, say—but say!

Fio.
Good lack!—
Well! here be sudden changes!—was I not
The torturer—the tormenter—ruffling so
Your temper's chrystal smoothness?—Now it seems,
I am the gentlest, tenderest—most beloved!—
Come! be but honest—I will be so too,
And tell thee all I know—confess thy Heart
Is given to young Algarves in all love—

Cos.
Nay!—nay!

Fio.
Oh! thou would-be Deceiver, cease!
'Tis vain to try and hide that little heart—
'Tis like a fluttering bird seen through a net—
'Tis vain to blush and frown and say, Nay! nay!
I say, Yea! yea!—and drive your frightened words,
Which Conscience makes most trembling cowards, back—back—
Upon their faultering way!—

Cos.
Now shame on thee!—
To triumph so ungenerously!—and yet—
Well!—I must own—my secret, like a sword,
Eats deep into its sheath—my heart!—Yes!—yes!—
I love him—it is all too true—woe's me!—
Now quickly, quickly, tell me all thou know'st!—

Fio.
Thus much, then—through the unwearying instances
Of his true friends—for he hath such at Court—
And through the kind Duke's cordial willingness
To be convinced, his sentence is revoked,
And he to Florence will return at once!

Cos.
All tremblingly I take this Happiness
Unto my deepest Soul!—I love!—I love!—
My heart says this within me day and night—
And I would say it to his Soul for ever!

Fio.
And dost thou know how much the noble Count
Thine Uncle doth mislike this same fair youth?—
It is supposed he spites him grievously.

Cos.
I fear Alphonzo hath displeased him oft—
Pronouncing judgments adverse from his own,
And differing with him, in grave matters much—
But yet if—if—some love for me may dwell—
Which I do think and trust—within the heart
Of young Algarves, he will seek to win
More favourable opinions and regardings
From my good Uncle!—then this banishment
May have subdued in some slight sort, at length—
That fiery spirit of aspiring flight—
That far outsoared the eagle!—he hath learned,
We well may hope, to check and to controul
The ambitious daring of his nature—not
To yield those glowing hopes that led him on—
But better guide him to their brightest Havens!—

Fio.
Oh! find not fault with these great flights of Soul!—
Such noble restlessness—such discontent—
Such struggling to attain a goal unseen,
Is proudly eloquent—where'er it lurks—
Of the Immortality that glows within
And thus believe—where fires so deathless burn
Within the Soul, the Heart o'erfloweth more
With all the trembling tendernesses born
Of the uttermost of Passion!—and is made
A thousand times more startlingly alive
To all the fine susceptibilities—
To all selectest spiritualized emotions—
The veriest shades and touches of quick feeling—
Than theirs, that hovering scarce o'er Life's Horizon
Dwell, girt habitually with the Elements
Of common Life—the little and the low:
Doth not the Skylark when it sinks at length
Into its nest of love more blest appear,
Than that dull worm which never soars at all?—
The loftiest flights estrange it not from earth—
But seems it not—that winged careerer proud—
(Made in itself a half-celestial thing,)
To draw Heaven down with it where it descends?
Oh!—deepest sinks the flood of feeling, where
The towering pride of zeal the highest springs!
The wave, whose crest rose nearest to the cloud,
Into the most unfathomed chasmy fall,
Holloweth itself—precipitously profound.
Oh! find no fault then with the immortal Soul,
Because, through strong upspringings and aspirings—
Its Heavenward-pointing thoughts it dares enfranchise,
And would fulfil its destiny—and follow!—
The Heart meanwhile's the Husbandman that gathers
The heavenly Harvest in—for Love and Home!—

Cos.
Thy words alarm me!—Fiorilina!—why!—
Art thou not touched with tenderness thyself—
For this proud Zealot of Ambition's Creed?—
Ten thousand jealousies distract my heart—
Twin Souls so much alike!—thou lov'st him—Thou!—

Fio.
Who?—I! I love!—No! no!—I hold Love still
To be a Revolution in the State
Of our great Soul!—Our subject Thoughts rebel
Against their lawful rightful Sovereign—Self!—
And choose a foreign Lord from whence upspring
Strange male-administrations—feuds internal—
Distraction—strife—disorganization frightful—
While the irresponsible and distant Despot
Afar remains in free security—
Haply enjoying all the harm he causes!—
Amused with all the havoc that he makes!—
I will be Queen and Mistress in my Soul!—
And no Usurper shall dispute my Power—
No vain Pretender share or shake my Throne—
My thoughts shall be my faithful lieges still—
My feelings all, my vassals leal and true!
My Personal Form of Government is simple—
(I might well call it—a pure selfishness!)
I will explain it in a few brief words—
It is—be very sure—a Monarchy—
The Constitution—admirably arranged—
A Representative System—where my wishes
(Right strong Constituencies) depute my thoughts—
(Painstaking senators and most obedient)
To seize their slightest hints, and make them—acts.
These influence most materially my movements—
These same good wishes, powerful and determined,
These I consult on all occasions closely,
And carefully their views do still adopt.
I have invented thus, you may perceive,
A new and worthy Form of Government,
At least, not I—but young Algarves, 'twas
Conceived this Plan, when talking on a day
(Of Constitutions—States—Reforms and Rights)
With my good Brother—Stirring spirits both,
And restless innovators evermore—
If not in practice—in Imagination!

Cos.
Dost thou not love! how canst thou have described
So well what thou hast never learned to feel?

Fio.
From watching thee!—the looker on sees most
Thou know'st—o' the game; thou wert my School and Study.

Cos.
Oh, proud—and blithe—and light of heart art thou!—
And walkest the Earth in glad security—
But yet the hour may come to tame thy Heart.

Fio.
Tame!—Tame the Hyena first!—No!—No!—fore Heaven!—
I'll none on't!—

Cos.
Boastings are no bulwarks!—

Fio.
No!
But brazen-facedness proves a worthy breastplate!—
If it is seen you will not be subdued,
And mock at dangers very valiantly;
You're left in Peace—at least, I thus have found it.

Cos.
The attack will come!—

Fio.
I am armed 'gainst all attacks!
If the Enemy dare show his baby face
(This same Dan Cupid's but a beardless boy)
Just on the frontiers, I am up in arms—
This little kingdom of myself's awakened—
Aroused—assembling all its forces straight—
The alarums of my sensitive suspicions
Make all the Land to conscious credence start!
My sentinels are still on the look out!—
One sigh would like an earthquake rouse all the empire,
And put me on my guard at once!—a sigh!—
Oh! not the phalanxed chariots' thunderous roll
Were half as fearful!—I should lead at once
My Hosts, to rout the vile insidious Foe—
Whose Preparations for the Assault had made
That little tremour—which betrayed the approach!—
And drew the vengeance down which he deserved!
The wingëd Armies of my fiery wills
Are ready to do battle in the cause!—
I am well garrisoned round with troops on troops
Of faithful thoughts that live and die with me!—
My Fortresses are all in good repair—
Scorn—Independence—Vanity—Pride—Art—
Why even my very Fear's a Fortress!—So—
Thou see'st the foe can have no chance with me!—

Cos.
Why, thou hast the veriest braggadocio spirit!—
I almost yet could find it in my heart
To wish myself more like thee.—No! no! no!—
My silken slavery is more dear by far
Than this thine iron Independence—though
I have much suffered—more than tongue can tell,
Or Fancy to herself depict—or Memory
Keep freshly on her tablets, since with tears
She still would blot out what she wrote—again.—
And yet—I would not be more like to thee!—
Nor would I give thee one sweet-bitter pang—
One darling pain—one throe of power intense—
Nor share one sting of suffering with thee—

Fio.
Pray
Keep all these curious comforts to yourself!—
I swear I would not rob you for the world—
I am not quite so covetous!—

Cos.
Ah! well! well!—
You'd die of envy if you knew the bliss
Of this divine distraction— (Fio. shakes her head)
—but you would!—
Oh! I have suffered—What of that?—sweet saints!
Saddening for him is scarcely sorrow!—no!
A lovely anguish—'tis—a charming grief—
A costly misery—a celestial gloom—
Which still should boast more dear—more hallowed name!—
I feel all other earthly happiness
Would seem like very wretchedness indeed;
Beside this dear despondence—

Fio.
Let me have
This poor, despised, vain earthly Happiness—
And thou mayst keep all the celestial Misery!—

Cos.
Flouter!—but I forgive thee, and bestow
My heartiest pity on thee!—

Fio.
Seriously,
Hast thou indeed, Costanza, borne so much?—
Hast suffered truly with such bitterness?—

Cos.
Aye! have I!—

Fio.
What!—when he was here, didst thou
Love with such sad profundity of pain?—
Wert thou unhappy—then?—

Cos.
I know not!—nay!—
I had some Happiness—a dubious kind!—
To sit and look at him by stealth—in dread—
As 'twere to draw all Heaven into the Soul—
To listen to each word that passed his lips,
And hoard them in my heart, and make my thoughts
Their echoes everlastingly—to feel
The consecrated air I breathed—by him
Was also breathed—was this not Happiness?

Fio.
In your vocabulary this may have
The name of Happiness—in mine!—no matter!—
Poor Friend!—I sorrow in your sorrow much.
I must confess I long suspected this!—

Cos.
And can you wonder?—Oh! I wonder most
All womankind love not the matchless One!—

Fio.
They all do love the matchless One!

Cos.
What mean'st?

Fio.
That ev'ry woman thinks her own adorer,
Though he be fit to fright a horse with plainness,
The Paragon unparallel'd!—

Cos.
Mock on!—
I care not!—Heavens! And shall I see thee soon,
Alphonzo!—Oh! the music in thy name
Thrills through me as a thousand clarions shook me!—
Thy Beauty is too terrible to me;—
My whole Soul dies before thee!—The adoration
Drinks up its Life immortal!—and like Death,
Drains my deep Heart's-blood!—Oh! the o'erpowering thought!—
It is too much—I cannot bear it—no!—
I cannot bear the unutterable, the unknown,
The intolerable,—th' untamed,—untold,—deep Love!—
It crushes all my Soul into Herself—
She scarce observes what outward objects are—
The worlds within—what are they? Thine, all thine!
No breath—no bliss—no bloom—no being now—
Save as the Heavenly Tyranny ordains!—
And shall I see him!—Oh! I tremble! Saints!—
It is a crushing moment and a fearful—
A terrible moment—when I see him first:—
I die away in many fears—and droop!—
I die away in swooning dissolutions—
Such flutterings, and such faulterings, and such faintness—
And then but live to find him gone—worse death!
Oh! had I million Souls—were all his Slaves!—

Fio.
Now, put a spice of scorns and spites, I pray,
Into this honeyed sickliness of Love!—
Else 'twill a cloying compound prove, I doubt;—
None love so well, as those love savagely!—
With due admixture of the ingredients good
Of vanity—fierce pride—and wild caprice—
Perversity and obstinacy too—
Bold independence, and light reckless mirth
In their fair loaves of Love,—true staff of Life!—
Indeed, I fain would recommend besides
A little leaven of Indifference—just
Enough to lighten and to rarify
The rather heavy nature of the food!—
Yes! something of Indifference there should be,
Or, at the least, the semblance of it—else
'Tis but a leaden lump—when all is done!—

Cos.
Indifference!—why—if you can have, indeed,
Your noble scorn—pride—vanity—caprice—
And such delightful heighteners of the savour,
You must have a preponderating portion,
Be very certain, of Indifference first!

Fio.
“Long live Indifference!” is my cry for ever!
Pleasure and peace are her glad followers still!—
Oh! couldst thou see as I see—but thou'rt blind!—
A mote in the Heart is worse, alas! far worse
Than twice an hundred beams were in the eye!—
A mote—poor thing!—hath got into thy heart—
Would I could pluck it out for thee!—

Cos.
Art sure
There is no blinding beam now in thine own?

Fio.
As sure as that the mote in thine—if'twere
Transferred to mine—would prove a mote indeed—
A weak mote in a sunbeam—or if thou
Admirest more poetic illustrations—
A mite in some great mountain of a cheese!
For my part I prefer still the Sublime!

Cos.
Oh! I do love him! 'tis a bliss to say it!
The Universe with all its marshalled worlds,
Its scattered mysteries and its clustered marvels,
Recedes before my gaze—and nothing is
But him—in Heaven or Earth!—My Earth and Heaven!—

Enter Demetrio, Guicciardini, and Cesare.
Dem.
(to Cos.
Lady, I kiss thy hands—thy lowliest slave!
(To Fio.)
Sweet sister, we are bearers of blythe news
Which should make all full welcome!—now attend,
Grant me your closest heed, and listen—

Fio.
Wait!
Good Brother, wait awhile till I put up
A temporary pulpit for you here,
From which your grave discourse you may deliver.

Dem.
And how now?—Madcap!—

Fio.
Nay!—you did begin
With such a startling bigness of importance,
And such injunctions that we should bestow
Our full attention—was it not so, Sirs?—
That you from elevated post should pour
Your eloquence on our bespoken ears.

Cesa.
And, fairest Lady, take my word for't now,
Your playful mirth hath robbed you for seven seconds
Of a great pleasure—and I doubt besides
Put a sharp curb on Curiosity.

Cos.
In common charity speak out at once—
Let me not suffer for my sweet Friend's sins—
Good Signior Guicciardini—what's the news?—
(Aside.)
Oh my heart leaps to him—Algarves' friend!

Gui.
Madam, the news is that His Highness means,
After to-morrow, to assemble all
The Bright and Gallant in the field, to share
His favourite sport of Hawking—having had
A noble present from a foreign King
Of two Ger-Falcons, most transcendant birds.

Fio.
I am delighted—'tis a sport I love;
And anything besides must welcome be
That merry-making brings and mirth—

Gui.
The Duke
Is greatly pleased that our dear mutual Friend
Algarves, is from banishment recalled.

Cos.
What, Sir! (Aside)
I am most dizzy—I am faint—
What said you?—is the banished Count returned?

Gui.
No, Madam, I did say recalled—before
This sun's set, though, I hope 'twill be—returned!—

Dem.
My little Fiorilina! hast thou yet
Made choice of fair habiliments wherewith
To clothe thyself for this state Ball to-morrow?—
The fever of anxiety thou art in
To look the loveliest there will fret thee so,
Thou must be measured by thy milliners
When the first dance strikes up, else, I much doubt
No dress will fit thee—thou'lt have grown so thin.

Fio.
Excellent Infamy! right villainous Brother!—
These great refinements in the art of dress—
These deep, learned disquisitions from your tongue,
Prove to my mind what I have oft suspected—
What I see there can scarce my Brother be,
Unless the tailor too could father me!
Thou art the creature of thy clothes—no more!
He hath cut thee out with scissars—fashioned—formed—
And finished thee—with thread and needle's magic!
I think thou'rt only pinned together, though,
Now I look closer!—If a pin fell out,
A limb would drop off with it—yes, 'tis so!—
And that which tops thee—I declare I see
The hard head of the hugest pin!—must be!—

Dem.
Excellent Insolence!—Thou most scandalous Sister!—
I would I were a Porcupine of Pins,
So I would punish thine impertinences—
But Guicciardini!—Cesare!—hence!—haste!—
Let's seek the high-road now to greet our Friend
The first on his return from Banishment.

Gui.
Nay! it were best to wait him at my house,
I feel most sure he will alight there first—
Which I indeed entreated him to do
In that despatch I penned a week ago,
Crammed with congratulations and good wishes.

Dem.
Have with you, then!—sweet Ladies!—rest you fair.

Cesa.
I do commend me to your high esteems.

Gui.
And I—and hope the Hawking's promised sport
Will flush fair cheeks yet richlier at the Festa,
As that anticipated joyaunce doth
Now light the loveliest eyes that Florence boasts—

[Exeunt Ces., Gui., and Dem.
Cos.
Now let me leave thee, Fiorilina! since
My spirits are so high and low at once—
My heart in such a whirl and fever strange
Of transport—torment—wonder—doubt—I feel
I must seek some repose!—

Fio.
And sweet!—thou art pale—
Joy hath o'ertasked thee long o'ertried by grief!—

Cos.
And such a mixed and strangely troubled joy—
Dashed with sick doubts and veiled in vague suspense.
Good even!—my kind one!—when thou say'st thy prayers,
Pray earnestly for one who needs much help—
And scarce hath strength to seek it for herself.

Fio.
Sweet! Fare thee well! (Aside.)
Ah! little doth she know
How all my prayers flow into floods of tears—
And melt more from mine eyes than from my lips!
Costanza! stay, I will go down with thee,
And see if Monna Laura is arrived,
Who should accompany thy footsteps home;—
I will to-morrow morning come to thee,
And if I learn aught of Algarves, Love!—
I will not fail—despite my jeering mockery—
To make communications straight with thee—
To-morrow morning were an age to wait—
I see your looks speak eloquently thus—
Speak it!—they shriek it!—with pathetic anguish!—
So I do promise you, forthwith to send
My little page, with presents for your Hands
Detailing all the interesting events
That may have happened ere you sun hath set!
As—Meetings 'twixt Alphonzo and his friends—
Sundry “God save ye's”—pressures of the palm—
With questionings touching on the state of the roads—
Condolences concerning the odious dust
That lays its levelling tax on travellers—
Remarks that 'tis eight minutes past the time
He was expected—on his side, perhaps,
Tenderest enquiries after—a hot supper!—
Communications confidential—haply,
Relating to most painful feelings—even
Sickness of Heart—caused by an empty stomach!—
And gentlest admonitions to the Clerks
Official of his kitchen—to despatch—
And make fair speed—and crowd their preparations—
Joined with gesticulations grave and graceful.—

Cos.
Well! Banterer! well!—whate'er thou'lt write is welcome!

[Exeunt.